(You're Not) Fine
by Wordwielder
Summary: Sam thinks he might go insane if he doesn't ask his brother whether the shapeshifter was telling the truth, even though Dean is loathe is share his emotions. Set post 1.06, "Skin." T for language and mentions of the rough Winchester childhood.


He jerks up from the seat, gasping, and rubs his eyes. _Shit._ A dream. Ever since he got treated to the sight of his (not) brother's bleeding chest and glassy eyes, Dean's corpse has haunted his dreams. He frowns. In his dream, the dead Dean was driving, singing off-key, and then turned to him and said calmly, "I hope you know you've killed me, Sammy," as blood began to trickle from in between his teeth down his chin. Sam shrunk back in horror, and dead Dean grinned. "I know I'm a freak, Sammy. You made me this way, didn't you? C'mon, be a freak with me, Sam." His hand reached for Sam's throat, and Sam woke up right as he felt fingers close around his windpipe.

This is why he's basically stopped sleeping. All he ever sees are the dead and his own sins.

Sam looks at his brother, who is driving, who isn't singing, whose face is perfectly blood-free. Dean raises his eyebrows, a question on his face, before his eyes fall on Sam's neck. He nods at the bruises, and asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam says, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, I'm fine." Dean doesn't look totally convinced; hell, Sam isn't totally convinced as his neck gives a persuasive throb, but he'll heal.

Dean wipes a hand over the dash where some dust's fallen. The car is almost spotless, even more than it usually is with Dean's normal loving attentions. Dean borrowed some cleaning supplies from Rebecca and furiously scrubbed the entire front of the car as soon as they got a moment to relax, even though it was the middle of the night. Sam had watched him, caught somewhere between amused and worried, as he wiped every surface with disinfectant.

"D'you think that's everywhere the bastard touched?" Dean finally muttered after over an hour. "I can't believe he _drove my car." _

"It's good, Dean," Sam sighed. "You should sleep."

"Shut up," Dean had answered automatically, but he headed inside, rag in hand, and Sam had followed.

Dean seems to be pretty okay, mostly, considering a shapeshifter stole his identity and made him into a mass murderer within a week. He looks a little distracted, but not exactly unhappy. He isn't talking much, either. Maybe he's thinking about his funeral two hundred miles back, and who might be there.

_Or maybe,_ a voice in Sam Winchester's mind whispers, _he's thinking exactly what it said he thinks._

Sam knows Dean isn't going to want to talk about this at all, because it involves _feelings_, but his mind is whirring, trying to figure out how much was real and how much was meant to fuck with his head. He has to know. He has to know how much he needs to apologize for. The only person who knows is Dean. Dean, who's frowning a little, reaching for the map on Sam's lap.

"What do you think, Sammy? You ready to stop at the next Smalltown, USA?"

"Yeah, fine, sure." Sam eyes his brother, and Dean pulls a face. "What are you lookin' at me like that for?"

Sam pauses, thinks how to word his questions.

"The thing," he begins, and Dean tenses. "It said you had dreams."

Dean groans. "Sammy, can we not talk about that thing?"

"Dean, no, this is important. What were they?"

Dean sighs, avoiding Sam's eyes. He reaches, turns down the radio. A good sign.

"I- I wasn't great at school, like you. But I did okay. I mean, okay enough I could get into a small college. Not Stanford okay," he sends a small grin Sam's way, but his eyes are not quite bright enough.

Sam recognizes that masked pain. He remembers the day he got his acceptance letter, and how Dean grinned and hugged him and told him how fucking proud he was, and how his eyes looked exactly like that when he thought Sam wasn't looking. He had practically sprinted out of the room right after Sam told him, promising he was going to get him some great pie or something to have with dinner to celebrate, and shit, did they have stuff to make his favorites for dinner? And hell, he'd even some birthday candles and streamers and shit. He had driven out of the lot even faster than he usually did, and stayed gone a lot longer than it should've taken to go to a grocery store and buy a few things.

Dean's voice is cautious. "I thought I might go to school. I'd take the car, so I could get back quick if you needed anything. I dunno, I didn't have my whole life planned out or anything. I thought I would become a mechanic. I mean, I know it's not bein' some hotshot lawyer, or a doctor or somethin', but I was good at cars, and I liked working with them, so...yeah." He half-shrugs. "I figured I'd get an Associate's degree, find a job, maybe get my own garage one day, have a family. The usual. That thing made it out like I was gonna be President or something. It's nothing- seriously, Sam, don't get your panties in a twist over it."

"It's not nothing," Sam says quietly. "Why didn't you go?"

Dean looks at him like he's insane. Sam hopes he's imagining the resentful glint in his eyes.

"Jesus, Sam, I thought about it for two seconds. It was dumb. I couldn't have left you alone with Dad. You'd have kick started World War III. And Dad needed me on hunts, especially while you were still in school. And unlike your dumb ass, I didn't see the point in giving Dad a coronary. Anyway, you- I mean, you needed me," he throws out the last bit almost uncomfortably, then looks straight ahead at the road again. "Can we drop it now?"

"Dean," Sam chokes out. "I didn't- I swear, I didn't think you wanted that."

"It doesn't matter," Dean says, his eyes trained on the road.

"I would've been okay," Sam says almost desperately. "I was fourteen, Dean, not four. You didn't need to put your life on hold for me."

"You were fourteen, Sammy, you needed me at home. Don't say you didn't, alright? Dad- you would've been alone all the time, and you had to focus on school, not how you were gonna pay the bills or how to cook dinner. And what if you got sick? Who would've taken care of you then? No, Sam, I had to stay, and I don't regret that I did. So shut up about that."

A memory flashes into Sam's mind of Dean's pale face and his arm held at an unnatural angle after he took down a possession case when he was sixteen. He couldn't remember whether Dad had been there or not. Sam had wanted to go to the hospital once he realized there was no way he could fix this with their battered first aid kit, and he remembers the panic in Dean's voice as he yanked the phone from his hand and almost shouted, "We don't have insurance, Sammy! We can't afford an X-Ray! You have to eat, too!"

Why has he never thought about the fact Dean had said '_you,' _not_ 'we?' _

"I'm such a dick," Sam mutters.

"Oh, what now?" Dean demands, smacking his hand on the steering wheel.

"I never thought about the fact that you were worrying about all that when you were just a kid. Christ, Dean, did you even have a childhood?"

"'Course I did. It wasn't- I did that stuff for a good reason, Sammy. It was my responsibility."

"No, it was Dad's," Sam hisses. "And you got stuck with basically raising me."

Dean pulls over abruptly, turns the radio off, and turns to his brother, his face sharp. "Don't you fucking say I got stuck with it, Sam. I've been taking care of you my whole life. I- I don't know who I am if I'm not taking care of your punk ass. I mean, even before Mom died and this all got weird, you were my little brother and I used to beg Mom to let me help take care of you. I don't regret any of that, Sammy. I _don't._"

"But he said...that you had issues with me-"

"I'm sure I do, Freud, mostly that you're being a huge pain right now," Dean cuts him off. "This is getting really chick flick, so stop it. We're going to stop in the next bar, and I'm having a beer. Alright?"

_"Fine!"_ Sam relents, mostly because he's about to lose his temper, and pinches the bridge of his nose. A headache is starting behind his eyes. Dean nods determinedly, turns back on the music, and pulls back onto the highway.

The bar is small, poorly-lit, with hot waitresses. Perfectly to Dean's tastes. Dean orders a beer with a flirtatious smile at the waitress. Sam shakes his head when she asks him if he wants the same, and orders a water. He pulls out his dad's journal, and starts making sense of all the data, while Dean drinks his beer.

Dean doesn't say another word until he's had about four beers, and then he squeezes Sam's shoulder and says, quietly, uncharacteristically sentimentally, "You know I love you, right, kid?"

Part of Sam wants to snort, push at his brother's shoulder, and ask, "How drunk are you, dude?" He's fairly certain it was just the four beers, but maybe it was actually five or six. The other part of Sam, the _smarter _part, knows that he should quietly drink in the rarity of that sentence. Dean almost never says he loves anyone, even Sam or Dad, in those words. He prefers to say it in, "Hey, squirt, you want something to eat?" or "You wanna drive a while?" or "Are you sleeping better?" Dean hasn't actually told him he loves him since-

The morning he left for college. Dean got him up early and sipped coffee while Sam picked at the omelet he'd made for him.

"I will eat that if you don't," he threatened, and Sam grudgingly tucked in. His eyes were distant as Sam picked up his suitcase and nodded, and he grabbed the keys.

The bus station wasn't too far off. They could've walked it, definitely, but Sam knew Dean wanted the steadying influence of the Impala. They didn't listen to any of the loud rock they usually did on the way there, just NPR. That was a concession to Sam, a small gift, but his thanks got stuck in his throat. Dean said nothing. Sam said nothing.

He was leaving his brother for a long period of time for the first time in his life, and they both were silent with the weight of that truth.

Dean waited with him for the bus to pull up. When he heard the rumble of the engine approaching, he breathed in deeply, and said, "Listen, Sammy. Here's two hundred bucks. Y'know, if you need anything. Books and stuff. And I dunno, if you're hungry on the way or something."

"Dean," Sam started, trying to put the bills back in hand. "I don't need-"

"Take it," Dean growled. Sam narrowed his eyes, but slipped the bills into his pocket.

"I, uh," Sam said as the people around him started dragging their suitcases towards the bus.

"Ah," Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well." Their eyes met, and Sam looked down at his worn sneakers.

They were about thirty seconds away from the bus driver calling to him to hurry up; he was the only straggler left. Suddenly, Dean seized his little brother in a quick hug. Sam had a fleeting impression of the smell of leather and gasoline. Dean muttered in his ear, "Take care of yourself, bitch. Put up salt lines, at least. Call me when you get there. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"I will," Sam promised. "Jerk," he added, and Dean half-laughed.

"Love you, Sammy," Dean said, and his voice was low and strained. His eyes looked suspiciously bright. "God, I'm gonna miss you."

"I'll miss you too," Sam mumbled, trying to resist the urge to bury his head in Dean's shoulder like a little kid.

Dean took a ragged breath and gently pulled Sam off of him; he shoved Sam's suitcase in his hand and pushed him towards the bus. "Get your ass moving before they leave you and I get stuck with you."

Sam thought he might cry for the first time in years; he could feel the ache in his throat and his eyes were welling up for sure. "Love you, Dean. I'll call, okay?"

"Bus!" Dean ordered, turning his face aside. "Get outta here, college boy."

Sam rolled his eyes, grinned for Dean's benefit even though he thought he'd never felt less like smiling, and got on the bus.

He raised his hand to Dean through the window, and Dean waved back. The bus started moving, and Sam wanted to throw up. God, he was going to miss Dean so goddamn much. He peered out the window again, and he was almost sure he saw his tough big brother wipe his eyes. Sam might've too. But Winchester men would never admit to that.

God, was that really over four years ago?

"Yeah, I do," Sam says slowly. "I love you too, Dean." He should let it go there, but he is Sam Winchester, and he always has to push. He loves his dumbass brother, and this is for his own good. "Can we please-"

"Jesus Christ," Dean groans. "I'm not doing this here. Fine. Samantha, you fucking girl, we will have your fucking chick flick moment in the motel. You can drive Baby, 'cause I'm a little wasted. _Carefully._"

Sam rolls his eyes and takes the proffered keys. When he was sixteen, Dean had let him borrow the Impala, and flipped the fuck out later when he noticed the (really very small) scratch on her passenger side. Sam had been really hoping he wouldn't see it, but of course it took him within five minutes after Sam got home that night to notice, and Sam had to endure a ranting scolding after Dean played Spanish Inquisition to figure out what happened. (Sam still wasn't sure- he'd been more distracted by the pretty girl in the passenger side, who was the whole reason Dean even let him borrow the car.) Ever since, he gives him hell about how carefully he needs to treat Baby if he's letting Sam drive and he's already annoyed with him.

_Oh, of course I'm annoying him with my emotions,_ Sam thinks bitterly, then immediately feels guilty. Jesus Christ. "_You should appreciate him more than you do," _Not-quite-Dean's voice whispers insidiously to him. He throws down some money for their drinks, and starts after Dean, who's already almost to the passenger side.

Dean looks out the window for most of the drive to the hotel. He might be humming along to the AC/DC blaring, but if so, it's quiet, and Sam can't tell. That kinda bothers him. Humming would be a good thing. He has an incredibly good read on Dean's emotions from his body language. That _thing _has taken something precious from him: it's taken his confidence that he knows the depths of Dean's thoughts. Maybe he never has.

The drive is quick, only a song and a half. Sam shuts off Baby, and Dean goes to turn on his Dean charm for whatever clerk is at the desk to check them in. Sam considers following, but he stays behind, unlocks the Impala's trunk, and starts to grab the bags. Dean comes back with two room keys, takes his bag with an easy, beer-softened "Thanks, Sammy," and lets them in. The room isn't too bad, actually, considering how impulsively they chose this town to stop.

"Hey, what're our names this time?" Sam asks.

"I'm Roger Coleridge, currently." He flings his bag on bed on the left- Dean always favors the left bed, has since they were kids- and raises an eyebrow. "Alright, Sammy, out with it. I can see how much this is buggin' ya."

"I just- do you resent me?"

Dean blinks. "What the hell kind of question is that, Sammy?"

"One I really want you to answer honestly."

Dean sits heavily on his bed. He is silent for almost a minute, and Sam is opening his mouth to ask again when Dean finally answers. "Not-_often_. Sam, this isn't something I'm proud of, okay? Sometimes- sometimes it just seems unfair that you got to get out and be normal. I didn't even get to think about it. It's always been more important to you, though. You needed Stanford, I know, lot more than you needed me, and I'm so goddamn proud of you for your scholarship. I made a copy of your letter for us to keep, so I could show people if they asked."

"You never told me that," Sam says, surprised. Dean's not unfeeling, of course, but he's not sentimental, either, and this- this is unexpected.

Dean shrugs, uncomfortable. "The only reason I'm telling you now is because you're gettin' weird and emotional and I'm a little hammered. I don't really resent you, okay? I- I missed you. I miss you, is all."

"I'm right here."

"Are you?" Dean challenges. "You weren't for four years, Sam. And half the time I feel like I'm doing something awful to you, draggin' out from your friends and school to hunt. Sometimes you're a million miles away in the passenger side."

A strange pang hits Sam and twists his gut.

"You do actually think I'm going to leave you," he says.

"Did that fucking thing tell you I have abandonment issues, on top of everything else it did?" Dean almost yells. "God, can't I just deal with my shit by myself?"

"No, actually, you can't!" Sam fires back. "I am so sick of this refusal to deal with your emotions, Dean! I'm your goddamned brother! Why can't you just tell me things?"

"Because!" Dean shouts. "Because I need my own thoughts! Because you don't need my issues on top of yours! Because, believe it or not, being raised by Dad didn't exactly instill in me great emotional intelligence!"

"I'm your brother! I'm supposed to help you handle your problems!"

"No, that's not how it works!" Dean gets up, starts pacing, moving almost frantically.

"What, you're the only brother who gets to be one?" Sam retorts.

"That's so different, Sam, and you know it. It's my job to take care of you, so I do, and it's your job to-"

"Sit there and let you drown?" He grabs at Dean's shoulder, and Dean snorts and pushes him off.

"Oh, don't be so overdramatic. I'm not _drowning." _

"Yeah, you're totally fine." Sam huffs. "Dean- don't act like that. Like Dad. All closed off, tough guy attitude. I'm not buying it."

Dean abruptly sits back down. "Fine," he says roughly. "Fine, you want me to talk? Alright, fine. Yeah, I am scared you'll take off one day, because obviously you like your life at college more than hunting. And it wouldn't be a first, would it? Remember when I put you on your bus, Sammy, and we both cried a little? Remember how you used to call me once a week, and then once a month, and then not at all for _two years_? And, Dad," he adds, grinning sarcastically. "Dad, Dad definitely knows how to make a kid feel loved and needed, what with him disappearing for days at time with no explanation, and oh, here we are going on six months, now? I stuck around, I followed every order he gave me, and he still just disappeared on me. Oh, and let's delve deeper in my psyche, now, huh, Sam? Mom disappeared on me too, you could say. Every girl I've ever actually felt anything for ditched me as soon as she got too close. Does my fear of abandonment seem plausible to you? This fitting with your Pysch 101 class?" Dean stops speaking. His hands are shaking, and when Sam can force himself to meet his eyes, he sees that they're bright, anger fading quickly into something deeper and more painful.

"Dean," he pleads.

"I've done so much for you," Dean says, his voice heavy, no longer even remotely angry, and oh God, this is so much worse. He can yell back, get mad, when Dean's pissed at him. But he's always been terrified of seeing Dean in pain, especially when he's the one who's caused it.

"You have no idea, Sam. It wasn't just putting you to bed and making grilled cheese and paying bills, that was the easy stuff. I didn't mind that stuff, mostly. I was being your shield. I liked the idea of being your protector. You and me against the world and all that. I fucked up at that often enough, but I never stopped trying. I wanted you to be safe. I didn't ever want to tell you about the supernatural, much less take you hunting, even though I knew you'd have to find out eventually. Dad insisted. You always thought he and I didn't fight, right?"

Sam nods (since when do _they_ fight?), and Dean laughs a little.

"Oh, we fought, Sammy. I fought him on that until he make it very clear I needed to shut my mouth, and after, until he shut me up. I fought him every time you had to miss something important, or he missed something really important to you. You remember when he missed your tenth birthday? We really got into it over that one. We used to argue all the time about how much I _coddled _you. That's his words, not mine. He was always trying to make you into me, and you aren't, Sammy. You're better than me."

"Shut up, shut your mouth," Sam says fiercely, "That's not true at all."

Dean shakes his head. Sam wants to hug him or punch him in the mouth, whichever will take that defeated look out of his eyes more quickly.

"I know I give you a lot of shit for not wanting this, wanting to be normal. I get why you do. I mean, sometimes even I want that again. I guess I just don't want to face the fact I _can't _be normal for you. I don't fit into a normal life. That's why you stopped calling, right?"

Sam closes his eyes. "I didn't do that on purpose, Dean, I swear to God and Jesus and everyone you want me to swear to."

When he first got to Stanford, he missed his brother constantly. He kept expecting him to show up in his dorm room somehow. He kept catching himself thinking of things to tell Dean when he got home. He kept forgetting that Dean wasn't part of this world. He never missed the Tuesday night call, always during the time his roommate was at his study group, so they didn't have to talk in code. Dean only did once, and he called the next day, near frantically apologizing. "A hunt got out of hand," he explained. "Son of bitch ghost tried to set me _on fire_, d'you believe it? But how are you, Sammy? Are you doing okay?"

Then he started to make a life for himself, and slowly more and more time passed between calls, shorter calls at irregular times. Dean always answered his phone, sometimes during the middle of a hunt. The more Sam fell in love with college and Jess and being _normal, _at last, the harder it was to remember that Dean's stories of crappy motel rooms and shifters and witches and ghosts and demons were real, and the harder it was to make conversation for both of them. Dean never called first, because he said he didn't want to bug Sam when he was studying or in class or something. Sam didn't intend to, but he stopped calling, let the gap widen so far that by the time Dean came to get him at Stanford, he thought the next time they'd meet would be for their dad's funeral.

"I know, Sam." Dean's voice is pained. This is one moment he wants Dean to call him Sammy, because Sammy is a name of a loved, yes, coddled, child, one whose older brother will ruffle his hair and make him pancakes and nag him about the state of his room, get pissed off and threaten anyone who makes fun of little Sammy Winchester. Sammy is the one who wants to be his awesome older brother, bloodstains and salt rings and all. Sam- Sam is the name of slightly lost college graduate who has forgotten how to reconcile himself with little Sammy, and his awesome older brother's place in his life then and now. "It's okay, Sammy."

Dean always knows exactly what he needs, how can Sam be so shitty at knowing what Dean needs from him?

"Dean?" Sam asks.

"Yeah?"

"Did Dad ever..." he pauses. How can he ask this? How can he not? One of his virtues or flaws, depending on how you view it, is his need to know. "How did he make you shut up?"

Dean's face closes off. "Sam." His voice is a clear warning. It screams _'Shut up, Sam. Drop it.'_

"Did he hit you?" Sam demands. "Tell me, Dean. I'm 22, not twelve. You don't have to shield me anymore."

"Yes I do," Dean insists.

"He did, didn't he."

Dean rubs his fists over his eyes. "I need more alcohol for this. I didn't realize how prolonged this was going to be. I thought one chick flick hug would do it, and we'd be on our way to the happy pop song over the credits in five minutes."

Typical Dean, to crack a joke and do his best to avoid talking about difficult things that have to be said sometime. Sam glares at him, and he glares back. Sam sighs loudly, gets up, and grabs Dean's bottle of Jack from his bag. He throws the bottle at Dean, who catches it with a quick, pointed smile and takes a long, luxurious swig.

"He did," Sam says again.

Dean refuses to look at him; he takes out his pocket knife and starts scraping under his fingernails.

"_Dean,_" Sam says it warningly, but it's a plea, too. Because he did, he did, didn't he, and Dean never told him. Dean never gave Sam the opportunity to help ease this pain, and Sam feels like he's been punched in the stomach because _how could he have never noticed? _

"He isn't a bad guy," Dean says sharply. "He wasn't beating me behind closed doors every night, Sam. There were a handful of times, when he got drunk and I got too smart, he slapped me a little to shut me up. Before you start squawking, don't. It wasn't like you're thinking. Hell, you never noticed, so obviously it wasn't a big deal."

"You always had bruises," Sam says numbly. "When were-"

"They weren't from him, Sam. It wasn't a lot, or even hard. I swear I'm telling you the truth."

"It is a big deal!" Sam yells. "I would've-"

"What, stopped it?" Dean says skeptically. "It wasn't like it was scheduled on his calendar or something, Sam. You couldn't have predicted it. It happened only a few times over the years."

"Why?" Sam asks softly. "He never hit me, and I was always mouthing off."

Dean's eyes flare. "He knew I would kill him before I'd let him touch you. I damn well wouldn't have shut up then." His mouth twitches. "Besides, you were his favorite."

Ordinarily, Sam would argue that point passionately, and Dean certainly knows that, but Sam's not going to let him distract him.

"It wasn't _okay_ for him to hit you, Dean. Ever."

"How much of our lives have been what you'd term okay?" Dean points out. "Sammy, I didn't ever tell you that because of the face you're making right now. You look like you're torn between cryin' and homicide."

Dean would have never told him, he realizes. Dean would have taken this with him until the day he died. That stings. Dean thinks Sam is still a child, that he has to be invincible and indestructible for Sam's sake. There are times when he clings to Dean's authority, to the fact Dean will always protect him at all costs, but now he is horrified Dean thinks protecting him means suffering in silence.

"I'd like to find him for another reason, now. I'd like to shoot rock salt into his eyes," Sam mutters. He's been pissed at Dad before, hell, he's been furious, but this is not fucking okay. He shouldn't get to just never answer for this like he's never had to answer for the other stuff.

Dean jumps up and seizes Sam's wrist. "No fucking way. You don't say anything to him, you understand? Nothing."

"Dean-"

"You say _nothing_. You say something, I will kill you. You hear me?"

That sentence, _You hear me?_, recalls so many memories. When they were kids, Dean said it whenever he was forcing Sam to do something he didn't particularly want to do and he was tired of coaxing him. Most of the time, Dean's voice, Dean's big eyes, Dean's promises of tomorrow and fun things, could get Sammy to do anything. But sometimes, he was a little pain in the ass, and refused to bathe or eat his veggies or pick up his toys, and Dean would say warningly, "You do it _right now_, Sammy, or I won't take you to the library. You hear me?"

And he'd do it _right now_, because he heard him, and he _hated _when he made Dean mad.

Dad said it too. Probably where Dean picked it up from. He pulled it out quicker, though. Dean was patient, and hated to pull out his Authority Figure Voice and give orders. He knew Sam responded better to being persuaded. Dad was always too tired to cajole and too impatient to let Sammy take his time to decide to do something.

Dad said it when he was frustrated, exhausted. Or when he was proud, sometimes.

"That was a fine shot. You're gonna be a great hunter, Sammy. Do you hear me?" Dad said on his first hunt, when he was twelve. Dean had been staring from his brother to the dead witch on the ground, and his face looked peculiar. Proud, yeah. But worried. But Dad had given Sam a genuine compliment, and he took it and cradled it to his chest for the rare gift it was.

"Yes, sir," he said. Dean had squeezed his hand as they started back to the car, and whispered, "Good work, Sammy. We'll have some mint ice cream later." (Dean hated mint, but it was Sam's favorite, and he ate it without complaint in the kitchen that night at three AM, and Sammy smiled into his bowl because Dad thought he was gonna be a great hunter and Dean clapped his shoulders like he was older than twelve, and maybe he could become like them after all).

Now, Dean says "You hear me?" when he's really worried (_It wasn't your fault. You hear me, Sammy? You didn't do this, it did!_) and he can't stand to see Sam blame himself anymore. It still comes out most when Sam is being argumentative, and he's tired, and he wants him to drop whatever he's arguing about. Like right now. Dean Winchester hasn't had this much of an angst-fest in probably years. It's exhausting. This is why he stopped doing the emotion thing.

Sam knows, logically, from experience, that Dean would never hurt him willingly. But he also knows Dean is threatening him because he is actually afraid. He will say nothing. So he nods his agreement, and Dean releases his arm.

Dean takes a shaken breath. "Anything else, you bastard? Anything else?" His voice is strained, wild, ready to yell.

Sam hugs him. "Nothing," he says. He has pushed Dean as far as he intends to tonight.

"Good," Dean growls, and he ruffles Sam's hair as he pulls away, his eyes regaining their alertness. Sam doesn't expect the affection in his face, but it's there, for sure. "I'm going to shower. Find a good movie."

Sam doesn't like orders, hasn't for years, probably never will, but he takes that one. He finds a 1980s Batman movie, one he and Dean have watched in tons of other motel rooms since they were little kids, and he puts it on now, waiting for Dean to get out. This is one thing he can give.

Dean comes out, drying his hair with a towel, and puts on a clean t-shirt and boxers. He sits down at Sam's side, and they watch the movie. Sam keeps one eye on Dean. He laughs in all the places Sam remembers him laughing at, and that soothes Sam's mind. Finally, Dean throws a pillow at Sam and orders him to stop staring at him, for God's sake, and they both laugh when it nails Sam in face. Sam throws it back, and they have an honest-to-God pillow fight for the first time in years. It ends with Dean on the couch, his knees pulled to his chest, laughing so hard Sam can barely hear him anymore, and Sam, pushed off the coach and sprawled out like a rag doll on the ground, laughing just as hard.

"How drunk am I?" Dean chokes out. "Havin' a pillow fight like a preteen girl. Jesus Christ. Okay, okay, that's it. I'm done with your juvenile ass. The grown-ups are going to bed."

"_I'm_ juvenile? Who hit who first?"

"You were staring at me like I was about to disappear, I was justified."

"You're full of shit, is what you are."

"_You're _full of shit. Now, seriously, I'm tired. Lights out in ten, soldier."

They climb into their beds, and Dean flicks off the light with a mumbled, "Night, Sammy." He's out pretty quickly; Sam can tell by how deeply he's breathing. He's awake a while longer, thinking. That thing was horrifying, but it was right. Dean's got a lot of good qualities. He should appreciate them more. He'll do his damn best to try, he vows.

What had Dean said?

_"You're a freak. I'm a freak too. I'm right there with ya, all the way."_

"Freaks together," Sam says aloud.

Dean groans into his pillow. "Shuddup, Sammy."

Sam would throw something at him if he could stop smiling at the way Dean's glaring at him, eyes drooping with sleep and pretty much ruining the intimidating thing he's trying to go for. Right. His brother can kick ass like a pro, but he's still something of a teddy bear. Dean would kill him for even thinking that, though.

"Jerk," Sam whispers.

"Bitch," Dean answers, as automatic as a heartbeat, before rolling over and promptly going back to sleep.

Sam huffs out a quiet laugh and finally lets his eyes close. It's going to be alright, after all. It always is, as long as Dean's still in the left bed and there's still warm apple pie that's served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream to be eaten.

**Ugh, I have serious anxiety publishing this. It'd be cool if you'd review.**


End file.
